Read Our Man In Havana for Free Online Page B

novenas.’
    ‘How much is she?’
    ‘Three hundred pesos.’
    ‘Oh, Milly, Milly.’ There was nothing he could do but surrender. ‘You’ll have to pay out of your allowance towards the stabling.’
    ‘Of course I will.’ She kissed his ear. ‘I’ll start next month.’ They both knew very well that she would never start. She said, ‘You see, they did work after all, the novenas, I mean. I’ll begin another tomorrow, to make business good. I wonder which saint is best for that.’
    ‘I’ve heard that St Jude is the saint of lost causes,’ Wormold said.

CHAPTER 3
    1
    IT WAS WORMOLD’S day-dream that he would wake some day and find that he had amassed savings, bearer-bonds and share-certificates, and that he was receiving a steady flow of dividends like the rich inhabitants of the Vedado suburb; then he would retire with Milly to England, where there would be no Captain Seguras and no wolf-whistles. But the dream faded whenever he entered the big American bank in Obispo. Passing through the great stone portals, which were decorated with four-leaved clovers, he became again the small dealer he really was, whose pension would never be sufficient to take Milly to the region of safety.
    Drawing a cheque is not nearly so simple an operation in an American bank as in an English one. American bankers believe in the personal touch; the teller conveys a sense that he happens to be there accidentally and he is overjoyed at the lucky chance of the encounter. ‘Well,’ he seems to express in the sunny warmth of his smile, ‘who would have believed that I’d meet you here, you of all people, in a bank of all places?’ After exchanging with him news of your health and of his health, and after finding a common interest in the fineness of the winter weather, you shyly, apologetically, slide the cheque towards him (how tiresome and incidental all such business is), but he barely has time to glance at it when the telephone rings at his elbow. ‘Why, Henry,’ he exclaims in astonishment over the telephone, as though Henry too were the last person he expected to speak to on such a day, ‘what’s the news of you?’ The news takes a long time to absorb; the teller smiles whimsically at you: business is business.
    ‘I must say Edith was looking swell last night,’ the teller said.
    Wormold shifted restlessly.
    ‘It was a swell evening, it certainly was. Me? Oh, I’m fine.
    Well now, what can we do for you today?’
    ‘… … … .’
    ‘Why, anything to oblige, Henry, you know that … A hundred and fifty thousand dollars for three years … no, of course there won’t be any difficulty for a business like yours. We have to get the O.K. from New York, but that’s a formality. Just step in any time and talk to the manager. Monthly payments? That’s not necessary with an American firm. I’d say we could arrange five per cent. Make it two hundred thousand for four years? Of course, Henry.’
    Wormold’s cheque shrank to insignificance in his fingers. ‘Three hundred and fifty dollars’ – the writing seemed to him almost as thin as his resources.
    ‘See you at Mrs Slater’s tomorrow? I expect there’ll be a rubber. Don’t bring any aces up your sleeve, Henry. How long for the O.K.? Oh, a couple of days if we cable. Eleven tomorrow? Any time you say, Henry. Just walk in. I’ll tell the manager. He’ll be tickled to death to see you.’
    ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Wormold.’ Surname again. Perhaps, Wormold thought, I am not worth cultivating or perhaps it is our nationalities that keep us apart. ‘Three hundred and fifty dollars?’ The teller took an unobtrusive glance in a file before counting out the notes. He had hardly begun when the telephone rang a second time.
    ‘Why, Mrs Ashworth, where have you been hiding yourself? Over at Miami? No kidding?’ It was several minutes before he had finished with Mrs Ashworth. As he passed the notes to Wormold, he handed over a slip of paper as well. ‘You